Son of a Poet

With a pen to write; with fingers to type; I write anew; This a new spring for me summer is gone; autumn near winter flees. It's in my blood; the ink the feather. wandering soul; so long; Irish bones african heartbeat. Because of the english we make sound sweet. It is who i am; where i go it gives me voice; when i myself hide in shadows. I can sing to that special one; romantic i am by nature. I hold with both hands her features. "Let down your walls great city." they shout. Why should I; for they only pillage me. Why battle with this blank page? It is my blood; a fight i win. how can you know? Do you take the time to talk, to see , to understand? Every step, evry stroke of the pen; again and again. Every story and rhyme, now and in future time. Cry a river, spell a dream, sing a song never seen. For a penny, for a dime? No! I am the son of a poet.